


The Harmony of Milk and Mice

by TheHitchhiker



Category: Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/M, Platonic Soulmates, Post-Spider-Man: Homecoming, Pre-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Romantic Soulmates, Soulmate AU where you see in b&w until you meet your soulmate
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-14
Updated: 2019-04-28
Packaged: 2019-10-05 23:27:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17334377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheHitchhiker/pseuds/TheHitchhiker
Summary: [ on hold ] In this Universe, or at least with this Universe's humans, you see in black and white only until you formally meet your soulmate, where you then are granted the gift of saturation until your soulmate dies. Peter Parker has enough to worry about as the neighborhood Spider-Man. Luckily, after meeting his soulmate Gwen Stacy, that's one less thing to note in terms of his future - until he meets Michelle Jones and realizes the color he'd been experiencing with Gwen was only a diluted version of what was to really be seen.





	1. Chapter 1

I.

Peter 

There are two kinds of people in this world: those who complain and those who embrace. Those who elect to deny the most intrinsic function of their being in return for relatability, notoriety, out of sheer spite for the rest of us, or they’re simply too indifferent to care. Those who choose to embrace are placed on pedestals for validating their own situations in an environment surrounded by others who have always validated them, and live as advocates for a cause void of their need, or they live average, content lives as I did, only separated from the others by their state of quiet comfort with their circumstances.

These two types are molded from which spectrum we experience the phenomenon of color from, and frankly I found it all bullshit. I looked upon a monochrome world each morning; stared at a grey sun, felt my silver skin in the shower, carded the knots out of my black hair before school, fitted into smoky flannels and white undershirts - I wore three (technically many more, depending on shade) variants of ‘color’ everyday for fifteen years and I could not have cared less. 

As a child, there were others who met their rainbow early in life and in turn patronized the majority of us for it. 

I was accustomed to the feeling of disappointment and sadness. Those kids knew nothing about my home life and while it was never unpleasant, I was raised by my aunt and uncle instead of my parents and there was always a hole in my tiny existence, no matter how much I loved them and enjoyed being under their guardianship. There were nights I lay awake, questioning whether or not I would be seeing touches of color if my parents were there. I felt like I would have, even if science rejected the notion. Each time I dreamt of them I swore to May and Ben that I could see things I didn’t know how to explain. Bursts of complex light from the shadows, blots in my vision that lingered whenever I imagined my mother’s face. 

But I didn’t know what color was and neither did 3.9 billion other people. I was still veiled to the garish, subdued kaleidoscope in which the world chose to be seen through. The society ruling this demanding world worked little in my favor, despite half its population sharing the same vision. Some would say I had stunted vision. That implied a disadvantage to me. Though systematically I suffered greatly, I had a somewhat privileged social scene as Peter Parker. I had one friend who was like me and we didn’t care about everybody else and their fancy trichromats. At this point in time, my elders had bent the tools given to them by humanity and adjusted the machine to benefit us all in a way that garnered no further government attention. We were our own kind, our own people, and the world was split in half because of it.

I could do nothing of great significance about this as Peter Parker. But Spider-Man was different.

Maybe it came upon me as coincidence, or maybe it was a blessing, but I shot down the notion of a curse because it did too much good - for myself and others. No one, color-seeing or greyscale, knew what I saw except for me and not once did it matter what color the bad guy’s shirt was or his eyes. I always got the job done. That seemed to resonate more inside people.

I had an image, I was somebody. I was a boy in a red suit that stood out among the unvaried sky and cut out the skyline of Queens with my web-slinging. I brought looming enemies like Green Goblin to a standstill, tied robbers to lamp posts, caught old ladies’ purses and returned them intact, bought new suckers for kids that dropped theirs, helped bored teenagers I went to school with bag groceries, and kept my borough of New York City safe.

When people thought of me, though, they thought of a grown man. Someone with a wife and a kid, probably, or a very serious girlfriend in a small apartment in Woodside. I was a ripe fifteen. I lived in Forest Hills with my aunt. I went to Midtown School of Science and Technology and built LEGO Star Wars sets with my best friend.

I had never been in a relationship that advanced beyond sticky hand holding - until I met Gwen.

I was slick with sweat as I’d just peeled off my suit after an incident near Highland Park, where she was helping her father grill burgers. I remember feeling my stomach twist into itself as I smelled the rich grease emanating from the barbecue they were hosting. I was craving the taste of a fatty, disgusting hamburger in my mouth but I wasn’t going to be so forward as to intrude on their afternoon. But I didn’t have to, because she approached me first.

Worry was sketched across the planes of her face as she extended her hand to offer me a bottled water. 

“You looked like you needed it,” she said without elaborating. I didn’t ask for an explanation, cracking the top and gulping down half of the contents. Gwen’s mouth was full with a smile as she watched me, threading her fingers through elbow-length dark blonde hair in opposition to the active wind. I would have fainted at the sight of her if it weren’t for the water. 

I realized as I finished off the bottle that she had something new to her. Something I had seen in a dream before, and it took her a moment as well to collect herself before we gazed upon one another for the first time in color.

Her eyes shined this pale blue with immediate interest as she grasped onto me unexpectedly. Most would explain seeing color for the first time as an instant, gratifying connection between two people, but all we did was stare stupidly at one another for half a minute, trying to decipher whether or not this had been it. Maybe that was our special connection, one that no one could touch or alter, not even her father who watched us with furrowed brows and tightly wound up lips.

“Gwen,” he called. “Come help me with these please.”

I expected her father to be more straightforward, but it might have been the sight of her grasping me that kept him away from the idea of becoming aggressive. It wasn’t like I was incapable of handling him, but I didn’t want to. Poor man only wanted to grill a couple burgers.

“Daddy,” she said breathlessly. “It’s him.” Gwen’s eyes lifted to the sky and it was then I saw tears pooling in her newly saturated vision. I felt like I should have been close to tears as well, but my brain seemed to have ceased its functions momentarily because all I could focus on was the soft, calming tone of lilac on the blouse she was wearing. There wasn’t much more to it at the time other than it appeared to be a more interesting grey. I deduced that it wasn’t yellow, a color that all greyscales were warned away from if we could help it, as it tended to be the most unpleasant on the eyes. I think it might have been that very moment where I was truly able to admit I wasn’t disappointed with the Universe’s choice for me. Without even knowing it, she wore gentle pastels, welcoming you in and keeping you from the eyesores of harsher colors.

“I’m Peter,” I said dumbly. 

“I’m Gwen.”

Her mouth pulled back into a toothy smile and I didn’t feel it, but she was inching me closer and closer to her father and his extremely hot barbecue pit. He didn’t look like he minded, though, his eyes wide yet challenged as he glanced over me and tried to gauge his own opinion. I don’t think it was commonplace to be in the same vicinity as your child when they met their rainbow.

They aren’t actually called rainbows, by the way. They were called soulmates but that definition had worn on me so drastically in the contemporary era that I coined ‘rainbows’ for my personal use. I told Ned this once and he visibly recoiled into his seat, scrunching his nose far up into his face and scowling at me. 

“That sounds so cheesy, man,” he murmured before his grimace faded and he became transfixed in the directions of the Death Star LEGO set we were assembling once more. I was aware of this, how much worse it was than soulmates - a phrase that had undeniable longevity and was popularly associated with our condition. But I had been using it since I was eight years old and it was difficult to uninstall from my brain. 

I sat to eat lunch with them, despite Gwen being jittery to escape the park and explore the colorized landscape of New York City. Her father was oddly insistent on us venturing out into the streets and only grabbing a few of his burgers to go, but she thought it equally as fateful that I stumbled across them both on that unspecial afternoon. 

I was hungry and the burgers were absolutely delicious, melting in my mouth warmly and with ease. In between bites I would stare at the innards of the sandwich; at the decent orange-yellow cheese, the browned meat, the slick, diluted crimson tomato and bloody ketchup, the spring green lettuce, and the tawny pillow of buns that squished it all together. I never minded the outward appearance of food before, but it looked so much more edible then. Like eating it had a purpose beyond fuel and energy, not just to satisfy your appetite but your eyes as well. I don’t think I ever truly craved something in the way I craved and fantasized about that burger. 

I still couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to see, something else to unlock, because food was irresistible yet lacking a better lens into their surrealness, but I was pulled from those thoughts as soon as they were born.

“Where are you from, Peter?” Her father asked while I was halfway through chewing.

“Queens,” I answered, my voice muffled by the fistful of burger in my mouth.

“Really?” The blue of Gwen’s eyes never ceased to sparkle and impress whoever was looking into them. I could have nearly choked on that awe-inspiring burger if it weren’t for my previously established obsession with it. “We live in Brooklyn. I go to Brooklyn Tech, actually.”

I forced the bite down my throat. “I go to Midtown,” I said, a bit hoarse. “Uh- Midtown Tech.”

“No shit,” she blurted, noticing her father’s disapproving stare and correcting herself with a blush nearly invisible to me. “No way. I’m majoring in Environmental Sciences, what about you?”

“Um, well, we don’t really have majors but I have an-” I paused for a split second, debating between whether or not to clue her in on Mr. Stark and Spider-Man and everything else that had unfolded in my life in the past six months. She was my rainbow, after all, I couldn’t keep her in the dark forever. But would the first meeting be an appropriate time to mention it? In front of her wary father at that? “I have an A+ in Robotics Lab.” Had one. Before I quit. For Spider-Man.

We left curtly following the brief interrogation into my daily routine. Her father’s face aged ten years watching Gwen stroll off, elbow hooked in mine, toward the infinite horizon and before that, the streets of Queens. 

I would be considered lucky. The vast percentage of people don’t meet their soulmates until after their high school graduation, and one of the majoring factors in why they’re even given an opportunity is because of mass advertising. It’s been a natural occurrence since the birth of modern technology: ads on YouTube videos, on street corners, marketers scheduling assemblies at your schools - all for the exact same thing. A ticket to the rainbow.

Many people don’t find their soulmate in their general area, unless they were the Corey and Topanga type who had known one another since conception. Many more people don’t find their soulmate a neighborhood away. So there are bland, large scale corporations that pump out offers and prizes and sweepstakes to participate in arbitrary tests that process where in the world you are likely to find your soulmate, then proceed to ship you there for a two week trial. I was one of the millions of the herd who bought into this scheme, until Mr. Stark enlightened me.

“It’s all bullshit, kid,” he said once as we drove past an animated billboard that read ‘HONOLULU FOR YOU, OR PARIS FOR TWO?’ with smaller subtitles detailing the application. “They ask you your favorite season, your dreams, what Baz Luhrmann film you rather, then they step out of the room and roll the dice to see which wildly romantic yet perfectly ‘subtle’ location to put you to fail in for a week. How many of those contests do you think have produced nearly 8 billion people? I’d say zilch.”

“Statistics say .02% of the U.S. population,” I would have replied, had I not known better. Instead I nodded along and pretended to agree silently. Those over exaggerated ads on TV showcasing two hands outstretched for one another paired with the otherworldly backdrop had me hook, line, and sinker. They wore these smiles that didn’t seem to be anything but unfiltered admiration and relief and their body languages conveyed such a sense of relaxation it was hard not to fall headlong into the fantasy.

But Mr. Stark assured me that it was all an optical illusion; a clever trick on the colorblind eye, designed for a momentary lapse in judgement to trip you up until you’ve already signed your name. I switched the channel the next time I heard the ukulele strum of Can’t Help Falling In Love With You. 

In Queens, Gwen was swooning for each and every illuminated sign we past and tugging at my sweat dampened shirt sleeve.

“Peter, it’s so wonderful.” She said these things to me as if she’d known me her entire life. I suppose she had. We’d been waiting for one another our whole lives.

As I craned my neck to watch her become further transfixed with traffic lights and the clothes in display in store windows, I felt a touch of that familiar disappointment. She was beautiful, glowing in a delicate purple and cooing over the world through guileless, crystalline eyes. But there was something else. Was it just me feeling as if I was stationed in purgatory, raindrops from brushes dipped in watercolor sprinkling at my feet but absorbing into the liquid bleakness of the greyscale before they hit my skin? 

“Gwen,” I began and instantaneously her sights were on me, her attention undivided. “I’m fifteen. I live in Forest Hills, with my aunt.”

An even newer, sheer color was revealed to me as her features lit up and all the breath I had been holding while observing the world was taken from my chest. 

“I’m fourteen, fifteen in December,” Another smile, “I live with my dad in Park Slope.” It was then she had come to the realization that our hour-long relationship had been a whirlwind and her face softened in understanding. 

“It’s Parker, by the way - Peter Parker,” I continued, returning a twitchy, nervous smile.

“Gwen Stacy.” She extended her arm for a handshake and I accepted it gratefully, feeling the velvet surface of her skin for the first time and growing hesitant to the idea of letting go. The world around us might have lost its enchantment to me, but she was Gwen Stacy and I got to hold her hand and introduce myself as her soulmate in the disharmonized streets of New York City, and I needed nothing more to keep me from spiralling into that wormhole of muted color.

 

|

 

The seasons shifted. Summer passed the torch on to autumn, when the leaves apparently changed their code and mutated into the relatively similar bleached tones of red, yellow, and orange. I took Gwen out often and she would read off a newly compiled list of shades she discovered online. She wore knee-high skater dresses that were exclusively purchased at Forever 21 and flats that had tiny bows fitted onto the front, which I would have never noted had she not pointed them out to me.

“My dad thinks I should wear more tennis shoes,” she sighed, her cheek pressed against my shoulder blade as we wandered aimlessly away from the location of our date. “Says if I’m going to have a learner’s permit, I’ll need to look put-together when I inevitably get pulled over.”

“Inevitably?” I slid my fingers down her forearm so I could grasp her hand. 

“I crashed into a row of grocery carts when he tried to take me driving once,” she explained, and I felt her shoulders jolt against me in excitement as she urged my hand closer with an open palm.

Our two month mark was around the corner, but I loved her before then. I felt it in my head when she was near and my heart when she was away. Mr. Stark attempted to explain it to me that it was merely the pressure to fall in love that was luring me in. Behind my dense teenage skull where my thick brain rested, I didn’t believe him. 

I asked her to my homecoming, an event I would otherwise completely shun and avoid any knowledge of, just to prove it.

Ned continued prodding me over it in between classes, the small rush of students quieting his voice in my ears as I tried desperately to switch my books in and out of my locker. I could hear two inquiries with questionably clarity: What about her homecoming? What about Liz?

“I don’t know,” I answered at last.

“It’s kinda unfair to bring her here without going to Brooklyn too.”

“She doesn’t have that many friends, I don’t think it matters.” This was true, which I found sad personally but she never mentioned any qualms she had held over the situation. Gwen was extremely self aware that she wasn’t as career-oriented at fourteen as the rest of her class.

“That’s sad. We’ll be her friends - wait, you didn’t answer my Liz question.”

“Because it was stupid. I have a girlfriend.”

Ned frowned at me, like it wasn’t as simple as that. “It’s not as simple as that.” he said. I rolled my eyes, flicking my wrist and hardly flinching as my locker door shut curtly. I had a menial crush on Liz my freshman year, but after browsing multiple Yahoo! Answers articles, I trained myself out of it, knowing it wouldn’t lead me anywhere as I’d still looked upon her each day with the same fixed grey vision I always had. It wasn’t easy, either. 

I guess I could’ve given Ned that, because Liz’s beauty and laughter would be evergreen in my underdeveloped teenage brain. But that was the microwave background in a Universe of sparkling Gwen Stacy that overshadowed it.

“It is. They’ll get along, right? Liz is nice, Gwen is nice. We’re all nice.”

“I guess so,” droned Ned, noticeably unconvinced. “The only problem would be Michelle.”

“Huh? Who’s that?” I took forward in step, leading us toward Chem Lab. He dragged his feet beside me, his eyes focused in the corner of their sockets, unimpressed with me as I stared back at him incredulously. “What? I’ve never met a Michelle.”

“She’s in Decathlon with us. Jesus, Peter, I know you’re gone a lot, but how do you not notice the angel of death in the corner every day?”

“Well, this angel of death has never confronted me, so maybe that’s why. Isn’t that kinda offensive, by the way?”

He shrugged. “Flash came up with it.”

I swung open the lab door, pressing it against the wall so Ned could enter before me. 

“Yeah, let’s not call her that then. Wait- is she that black phantom in my peripheral? I thought my sleep paralysis demon was starting to follow me.”

Michelle was not my sleep paralysis demon. She was anything except a cold, void opening into the realm of nightmares. Unbeknownst to me, she was the opening - my opening - to the real world. Not in the condescending way adults phrase it; with bills, taxes, decades old student loans, and mortgages, but those absurd names like alabaster and periwinkle and cerulean and every little color in between, that was the real world. 

Aunt May didn’t let me sleep a wink overtime once my alarm set off at 5:00 AM. Though Midtown’s homecoming was scheduled twelve hours in advance, she had been ironing the suit she selected by the time I left and practicing tying Ben’s retired silk blue work tie. I told her I’d reviewed a couple of YouTube tutorials and I was fairly certain of my ability to tie my own tie, but she would never concede to me. It’s like a ritual, she said, it’s what they do in the movies. Let me be in a movie, Pete.

I had an above average day at school. I attended all my classes begrudgingly, ignoring the searing itch to dip my hand into my pocket and check my always empty lock screen. I was impatiently awaiting a text or call from Mr. Stark or Happy, eager to jump onto the next big thing for Spider-Man. I was fortunate enough to have been given Gwen as a distraction, but our relationship was wittling into a more mature pace and I was beginning to experience thrushes of anxiety and adrenaline throughout the longer days.

But no matter how intense the impulses became, I resented the idea of anything happening on homecoming. I wanted to enjoy the night with Gwen and introduce her to my friends, even if there weren’t many of them to share. 

At 4:45, Aunt May peeled out of the neighborhood in her Volvo and sped in coordination with our GPS directions. She kept rubbing my shoulder, supplementing me with a warm enthusiasm that for reasons unknown to me, I was lacking. We paused in our pursuit of Gwen’s address to roll in front of Ned’s house and allow him into the front seat, the back row reserved for Gwen and I. 

“Angel of death just texted the group chat,” announced Ned as May made a sharp left onto Gwen’s street, jerking us all in the confines of our seatbelts. “She’s in the gym now.”

“Who?” I asked while reaching up to grasp onto the ceiling handle.

“Michelle, sorry.” He jostled his head to and fro as to stir the unkind nickname out of his mind. I didn’t have a moment to reflect on this as I noticed a pink smudge appear in the doorway of a house we’d parked in front of. I tilted my head to see Gwen; her hair swept into an knot at the back of her head and gleaming with a sleekness unseen before on a casual day, and her smaller bodice fitted into a blush-colored dress that was fully veiled in light-catching beads and sequins. I checked her feet: no flats nor ribbons in sight, just a pair of ivory wedge sneakers.

I was imagining myself emerging from the car and ascending the concrete steps to greet her father and gifting her the corsage awkwardly in his presence. Instead, Gwen pecked his cheek at the threshold and skipped down the steps herself, rounding the Volvo and opening her own door despite me lunging myself out the car halfway to assist her. 

“Hey Gwen,” Ned spoke first. “I’m Ned, Peter’s best friend.”

“Hi Ned!” Before even acknowledging me, Gwen stuck her hand into the front seat between Ned and May, both of them switching turns to shake it. “I hope you don’t mind I’m crashing your homecoming!” 

“Nah, it’s lame as it is. We need someone to crash it.”

I fought against the restraint of my seatbelt to kiss her softly on the mouth. Her lips tasted like peaches and cream, too shy to add any tongue in front of Ned and my aunt, but I could predict the inside of her mouth had a lingering essence of Juicy Fruit gum. 

“It’s nice to see you again, Gwen,” said May with an honest smile. “You’re looking gorgeous tonight, isn’t she Peter?” she prompted me to notice I’d done nothing but initiate physical contact.

“Of course!” I compensated, attracting a giggle out of Gwen. I remained bashful for the second duration of our ride.

The exterior of Midtown was scarcely advertising the homecoming, the only hint of a party being hosted the strobe lights streaming out of the open gymnasium doors. I could feel perspiration on my skin, slick underneath the chafing innards of my jacket and pants as I wiggled out of my seatbelt and stepped out of the car. Gwen shot across the backseat to save me the walk around the trunk, gratefully accepting my hand as I unfolded it for her and pushing herself out of the car to stand shortly at my side.

She could sense my internal unease, miraculously, and she took initiative by taking my elbow and placing it gently where the tip of her spine was situated, my arm comfortably hanging around her shoulders. Gwen kept her fingers interlocked with mine as we made our entrance into the gymnasium, Ned long disapparated into the bland crowd of suits and dresses. A song was playing overhead, I could tell she liked it because of the rhythim the friction of her hips against mine made. I encouraged her to go for a dance, at first her eyebrows stitched together in uncertainty.

“We just got here, I can’t leave you behind,” she insisted. 

“I’m just going to get some punch, aren’t you thirsty?”

“No,” she said, running her soft fingertips across my damp forehead. “But if you are, I can wait. Can I go dance with Ned? If he dances?”

I shuffled, feeling guilt churn in my stomach. “He doesn’t, but Liz does,” I pointed out the raven-haired girl who had quickly found herself near Ned. “She’s nice, I promise.”

Gwen’s reluctant pose was evident for a moment longer before she let her fingertips fall from my skin and bounced over the dance floor to greet Liz. They’ll get along fine, I thought to myself, Just fine. All girls do.

I didn’t want to admit, because it would only discourage me further, but as I walked with heavy steps toward the arrangements of snacks and punch, I knew the sweating and high strung frame of thought was due to my bottled senses. I had been feeling it all day; when I woke up, at school, getting ready, and still then at that godforsaken punch table where each arm hair shot up and froze with perfect synchronization, the day-long built up fueled inside their own, miniscule consciousness as my body became taut with instinct.

A final stroke of restraint was painted within me, my limbs motionless as the hair was stubborn in its plight to force me out of the gym doors and into the chaotic wilderness of Queens. I knew I had to leave. I had no other choice - or more accurately, no other morally sound choice. Everything else in my life was given a pass to act ambiguous unless it concerned Spider-Man. 

I couldn’t relieve myself of the tug-of-war between the rest of my body and my spidey senses until I caught a glimpse of a lemon chiffon cloud pushing at the side exit to the gymnasium.

I blinked away from the underwhelming witness event and before I could think, my legs lurched forward and began to carry me outside. My hand leaned into my jacket, digging around for my thinly folded suit. It was terribly wrinkled as I spread it out and forced it around my spindly legs, hiding from wandering eyes in the prickly bushes. I dug one hand into the pocket of my trousers, fishing for my phone while yanking the mask over my features. Through robotic eye sight and trudging through the greenery, I texted Ned:

TELL HER I’M IN THE BATHROOM. SPIDEY STUFF HAPPENING.

Ned responded within seconds:

HOLY SHIT. 

I briskly patted at my chest, where the most guilt was stored, the suit automatically pressurizing against my skin. I was hoping, ironically, for a quick in-and-out battle with a nearby gang or perhaps even a simple purse-robbery. One, because I didn’t want to disappoint Gwen, and two, because I didn’t want Gwen to think I was in the bathroom to do anything other than pee, otherwise the back of my head would make it weird for me to make out with her later.

As I took my first fully-suited step out of the bushes, I collided with another person. 

“Hey-” came the voice, medium-pitched and melodic, but cut short by a yelp. I didn’t know what triggered it in the fleeting moments before I looked. I was almost certain it was whatever was alerting my spidey senses, until my eyes pivoted upward and were immediately assaulted with the harsh, dreaded cousin of tan.

“Oh my god,” I gasped, my lenses squinted as I screwed my eyes shut behind the mask.

“Fuck!” she exclaimed profanely. 

When the fatiguing after image faded in the blackness of the dark side of my eyelids, I was cautious in reopening my vision to the jarring color displayed ahead of me. She didn’t seem to yearn for the misty-rose tone of my Spider suit either, though as the thoughts racked my brain, I made the revelation that my suit not might have been tinted as calmly as I’d seen it.

“S-Spider-Man?” said the girl in disbelief. 

I snapped back into common sense as I looked at her. I had seen her before. I had heard of her before. She was the shadow in rooms, the lurker in our footsteps, the angel of death. But in that everlasting scene, as we held each other’s gazes with bated breath, she was not any angel of death. She was a girl named Michelle, who dressed unwisely in unaltered yellow and cursed in front of superheroes and made me see things the way I was meant to. I hurt. My eyes hurt, my bones hurt so deep in my body, my mouth hurt from the dryness, my chest hurt from the discovery. 

There was destruction in the distance, the pain of my spidey senses on my arms somehow less present than any of these other discomforts but wavering in the background nonetheless. I had to leave her.

I had to leave my rainbow. The old one I loved and the new one I was made for.


	2. Chapter 2

II

MJ

I was born in the palm of a Universe who wielded a scale of perfect versus imperfect yet was mercifully aware of the fact that it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered if its creations didn’t want it to. But that was dark matter in a world of blinding light, and most people didn’t subscribe to the philosophy of nihilism because of soulmates, especially ones with such distinctness as Spider-Man.

I didn’t bother calling my parents to get me that night, I wanted to walk. I told myself it’s because I needed to process what had happened without their incessant inquiries, and that isn’t untrue, but a worse feeling of desire culminated in my stomach. I wanted to see him again - I didn’t. He’d exchanged a high-pitched, somewhat familiar ‘I’m sorry!’ and thwiped into the treeline toward whatever oncoming peril was beyond it indefinitely.

When I returned home shortly after my encounter and subsequent Universally-approved courtship with Spider-Man, I swiftly removed my nauseatingly bright dress that my mom promised was a sleek silver when she purchased it. I felt itchy and out of place inside it, like it belonged only to that moment and not me. Nothing really belonged to me that night, except maybe the festering burn in my eyes from that god awful suit, colored just as gracefully as mine was for a sensitive greyscale.

Waking up to the endless drapery of my newly colored skin wasn’t entirely as anticlimactic as someone would assume from a person of my thought process. I didn’t know that I resembled topaz in tone and that my eyes bore two shades lighter than the obsidian I’d been gazing into through the mirror for fifteen years, or that my hair was a boring mousy brown - and all of this gave me more reasons to retreat into solitude. It gave me reason to lock myself away and do what I’m good at: art. 

 

Once I came to and pushed myself out of bed, I made my first steps toward my desk. It was helplessly cluttered but in the middle, a light in darkness, was my torn leather journal. Underneath two filled-out notebooks was my set of colored pencils that I purchased for the irony of it, and also to commit to a project. I filled in my sketches blindly, even when my parents tried to direct me toward the ‘correct’ colors for each template.

They hurt my eyes to look at, though they weren’t as severe as my homecoming dress. I went for my journal first still, deciding to tackle that challenge when the time came. I felt my breath hitch in my throat as I peeled the front pages back and exposed my opening drawing.

It was my friend Everest from back home, the sketch produced nearly a year ago and my handwork less than neat. His jawline and nose appeared broken and the proportions of his eyes were awry. What I noticed above all this was the color I chose for his flesh: olive green. His bulging eyes were tinted this electric blue and the tulip crown I’d added later was orange, the tips flamed with brown.

“Holy shit,” I whispered without realizing it. I flipped to the following page, the design meeting each border and swallowing every inch of the paper. I had to tilt it sideways to see the perspective clearly. It was the Oregon sunset, though I had a creeping suspicion, even then, that sunsets didn’t bleed deep crimson and violet. As I flickered through the journal, I would halt at certain pages that kept portraits of my old friends. A few I could tell blended better with the world around me than others, especially one of my brother Drew that depicted him with puffy pink skin and fuschia eyes.

I would glance at a couple pages filled in with people I no longer cared for - or never cared for originally. I scribbled a comical portrait of my dad on July 2nd, which I didn’t bother shading in, and since it was untouched by the oh-so Godly colored pencils, I ripped it from the spine and crushed it in my hand. 

I fanned more pages until I’d ended up on a sheet taken by a smaller, palm-sized portrait of a kid from Decathlon. Preston or Peter or something. We’d never spoken and he didn’t take the time out of his day to look me in the eyes, but once he’d gotten detention when I was bored and I sketched him as he shot daggers into the clock reigning over the claustrophobic English room. He didn’t notice me then, either, and we were the only two in the room.

For an unknown reason, I’d only made it a priority to color up to his shoulders. His sweater was shaded in this soft maroon and the plaid shirt pressed beneath it was left untouched, checkered in grey and white as I truly saw it. My index finger and thumb were pinched at the top corner of the sheet and I could feel the force of my bones press against my deepest layer of flesh. Before I could make even a semblance of a tear, my hearing sharpened to the sound of my mother’s voice summoning me downstairs for breakfast. 

My fingers lost the unfinished page and I absentmindedly returned it to my untidied work area, darting toward my laundry basket that was ingested by clean and unclean outfits alike. I dug my hands through the shockingly diverse palette of my wardrobe, my lanky body hunched awkwardly as I tore tee shirt from tee shirt in an effort to locate one that didn’t carry any distinct odors. I felt layers of guilt and disgust spread and warp around my skin as I unearthed a white tee and skinny black jeans I had slightly overgrown. I did not get out often enough, considering the litany of laundry I’d had stock piled from the previous week. I felt akin to sloths, or slugs, or a widowed bear in a perpetual cycle of hibernation. I don’t know what I was a widow of: maybe a decently compelling teenage existence in New York City, but what rose with my detestable sense of self was a new beginning. I just had to cuff my jeans in a way that didn’t leave me presented as a baby giraffe first, and deliver my laundry haul to mom.

Once I’d assembled my outfit I regained custody of my journal and spiralled downstairs, the smell of artificial waffles formidable in the living area as I steered myself into the conjoined kitchen. Alas, upon my entry there was a cosmic myriad of chocolate chip and blueberry Eggos, separated evenly as an offering to my brother and I.

“Good morning Michelle,” greeted Dad. His skin was fleshed out pale and a bit sickly, his eyes glinting in the sunlight a cornflower blue and his hair rather similar to what I had seen it as before; an obsidian that hardly reflected beneath the natural light. His carmine lips wound up as he leaned in to place a chaste kiss on my temple. I never appreciated such affection, but mom scorned me for rejecting it before, so I learned to grin and bear it. I wasn’t as forgiving of my parents that morning, however.

“Could we maybe, like, hug from now on?” I suggested while dipping my upper half forward to place a dry waffle between my teeth. I could see Drew’s face coil in one of the farther lanes in my vision. 

Dad didn’t skip a beat in his routine, shrugging his coat on despite the temperature measuring to an indifferent 57 degrees. “You too old for me now, huh?”

“I’m fifteen, so, kissing me yeah,” I stated.

“Fifteen is nothing, Michelle,” Mom cut in. Her voice was supposed to sound modulated, yet I found it shrill and penetrating. When I looked at her, she had skin like a polished chestnut and wore the same pair of eyes as me. “We’re both going to be gone one day and you’re going to regret not letting your dad give you a simple kiss on the head.” I had an agonizing flash of deja vu to all the other instances in my life in which she used the grating hackneyed phrase. 

Drew’s dark eyebrows flicked upward; he could see the peaks of my ears blush in frustration and attitude and my face embellishing something of a scowl in gradual disbelief. My expression was going through phases that would have warded my mother off, but she never paid attention, she hardly looked me in the eyes - just like that boy. Except I kept his picture. If I drew a sketch of mom, I’d waterlog it in the sink and watch the ink tint the clear liquid pool until it was threadbare.

“It’s my body. If I don’t consent to something being done to it then it’s unjust to continue-” I began, prepared to spar.

“Christ, consent, Michelle? Really? It’s your father, not some street pervert.” she interjected. “You need to get over yourself. Women go through much worse daily than being given harmless affection by their dads.”

Vitriol whirred in my throat. I could feel the life that was breathed into my aggression as I curled my fingers in and dug my blunt nails into the heels of my palms. Any other girl in this city could dream of announcing to their mother that they’d found their soulmate; after transcending dimensions and assembling into just the right array of atoms, they’d reconnected - and there wasn’t a single molecule within me that didn’t envy those girls, because I not once felt the inclination to share that newfound part of my life with her.

“Oh, so it’s so much for me to ask, while dad doesn’t even question why Drew doesn’t want to be kissed?” I retorted to my brother’s dismay. 

“I’m a dude, M,” he said dumbly. I looked to him and in a fraction of a second, I felt tears pool behind my eyes and building a pressure in my skull. Our skintones matched and we were both jeweled with mom’s deeply tinted irises. One thing struck me, though, and it was the color of his pullover. It was a silvery grey, like I’d requested the greater portion of my wardrobe to be. “Guys just don’t do that.”

“Are all your clothes like that?” I spat unthinkingly. 

Drew spoke mostly through the situation of his brows, the thickness above his sockets knitting closer together. He was a pure mixture of the fixed attitude our relatively poised parents (when my mom wasn’t ambushing me) beheld, while I’d inherited the ‘impudence’ of my paternal grandmother.

“Pullovers?”

“Grey. Are all your clothes the way you want them? Just like your physical boundaries?” The ambient noise of the kitchen had seemingly dissipated. Dad’s heels were pasted to the ceramic, mom’s hands clasped white onto her work bag, and everyone’s breathing stilled. 

“What point are you trying to make, Michelle?” sighed Mom, vexed yet now visibly attentive of what I had to say.

I should not have said anything. I should not have given her access to that part of me so quickly. I should not have compromised - fuck, I still wasn’t going to.

“Forget it. I’m going out.”

Solemn were their protests as I crammed a blueberry waffle into my mouth and left the house gracelessly; the door slamming at my heels and the entire family sharing a collective groan over my attitude. I painfully suppressed the instinct to widen my eyes at the watercolors flooding my vision as soon as I’d faced the outdoors, but alas I did not meet the hostile environment that awaited me two steps behind.

I trotted down the front steps, my gross mustard-colored boots clashing with the rain washed pavement that I padded in, though from the calves up I neutralized into the muted backsplash of the row of townhouses that all housed multiple sets of eyes that felt like they were fixating on me through their street-facing windows.

You’re not that important, MJ. Every day a girl like you finds her soulmate and the world holds its proper axis yet. 

I was going to be important to those people, to that insignificant species, when the Universe turned coat on us. For everyone else that was like me only twelve hours ago. I felt this backwards empowerment in my chest as I charted Queens for an appropriate place to conduct my adjectives compilation for this epic quest - but I swallowed the feeling, focusing on the weight of my journal in my hand and the feeling of my eyeballs in my head as they absorbed and processed the colorant light coming in from each direction. 

I felt my stomach curl inwardly as I approached a cheap hot dog cart. It was 9:50 AM, and the two dry waffles hadn’t quenched my hunger. All of the condiments lit up, perhaps even more so than the outlay of the borough; the mustard bottle my shoes took inspiration from, the offputting red of the ketchup sitting as its pair, and the upsetting green of the horse radish that churned something days old in my belly and curved my appetite only briefly before I went into step. 

“Just one. Ketchup only, please,” I dug into my hot pink wallet I was gifted for my 15th birthday. I blinked, incredulously as the color harassed my every sense. The vendor peered my way, not amused at my unplanned quirky actions. I’d let one too many beats pass, as before I could unearth my two dollars owed, an older business woman in a pencil skirt and chopstick bun elbowed me out of her foot space. I tossed my money onto the greasy counter and shoveled my sloppily assembled hot dog out of the vendor’s sight. 

I’d advanced eight steps or so, my mood disgruntled by the asshole woman in line but my mouth too preoccupied with my hot dog to make any verbal complaint about it when she’d left the cart, but before I could progress any further I felt thunder beneath my boots. I pivoted my head upward at the sky, so accustomed to the highest grey layer of the earth, but the sky kept intact its cerulean gleam. I lifted my hot dog, not minding the spilling ketchup as I walked without haste and remained attuned to the above. That would serve me no good, because while joining my lips in another savoury bite I’d missed the meat of the hot dog entirely and eaten half of my tongue instead. I hissed, and it was moments later that I’d made the revelation it was no thunder at all, but a villain, and as soon as I’d spotted the alerting red of the ketchup, I caught a glimpse of a red suit swinging in through the median of the buildings. 

No. Don’t turn around, Michelle. Keep going. 

I listened to myself. Chaos ensued at my heels but I persisted. Others raised their arms to the sky to record the havoc reigning on the city, some spilled their freshly brewed coffee onto the sidewalk, and there were the sane few that kept at my pace in the opposite direction. I crumpled my hotdog into the small space of my mouth and broke it down with the same swiftness of which I carried myself onto Ditmars Boulevard. The whole sequence reminded me of a time before; on another side of the country, in a climate and topography in absolute disconnect with that of New York’s. 

Bricks and cement crushed and scattered in my wake, the sound clinching the sensitive skin inside my earlobes. These memories pressed nonetheless. The urban layout was shrouded by my nostalgia with the highly-bred grand firs, the next breath I took was directly through my nostrils and the inhale was infused with the citrus scent of the needles. I stepped onto 111th Street and saw closely the shiny, dark green needles beneath the open sun, hearing a familiar voice rolling in my earshot. 

“MJ!” came the voice. Footsteps did not approach me in reality, but as the damage roared in nearby Astoria, I felt a broad ghost hand grip my shoulder. “We’ve gotta get home, there’s too much ash,” The boy at my hip coughed, his chest rattling and his free hand clenched over his nose and mouth. 

“Chill, Everest! Five more minutes, it’s not that bad,” I lied. The fire was drawing rapidly into our vicinity, but I’d wanted to sketch a quick perspective of the blackened trees farther out. I was assured by my dad that we’d be safe as long as we’d lingered near the treeline, though I’d insisted I could gain a better view at a boulder I frequented deeper into the forest. 

Everest’s fingertips pressed harder, white blossoming from my tanned skin. 

“This is so stupid, we’re going,” he commanded. I resisted, those identical yellow boots planted unyielding on the boulder. His face furrowed at my adamantine build, but before I could cry out any protests he’d slid his hand downward and secured it around my upper arm, plucking me with relative ease off of the rock.

I hadn’t made the revelation of my own labored breathing until I was planted on the eerily dry ground of the forest. I blinked slowly up at Everest, my pupils blown in my developing asphyxia. Finally, I could process the kindling on my flesh. 

“Yeah exactly, look at you, you’re red everywhere,” he hissed, tugging me along like a ragdoll as he retraced our steps through the woodlands. I felt lightheaded, but elsewhere I could sense something missing as well. My head sunk forward and as I spotted my unoccupied arm, I noted that my journal was no longer in my possession. 

“Eve,” I rasped, “Eve.” I repeated when he hadn’t heard me. His black eyes flickered back my way, hardly paying notice to me. “My journal, I dropped it. We can’t leave it.”

Uncertainty pooled in his waterline. I jerked against his weight, even when it proved hopeless. 

“Go ahead,” he released me from his hold and pushed me forward, his large hand pressed between my shoulder blades and forcing me into the stock of a tree. I looked over my shoulder at him, my eyebrows scowling.

“No! I’ll get it-”

“MJ, if you move, I’ll actually kill you before this fire can.” warned Everest, taking off into a sprint in the direction of the boulder.

“It’s not even that bad!” I weakly argued as he fled from my range. 

Three days later, reports were released to the public. I was on a plane hovering Ohio when I’d clicked on the news site and read that 1 million acres of torched land had blighted the Pacific Northwest. I was in my vacant bedroom in Queens when I dialed Everest’s number and the line remained static. I was in Robotics Lab when the principal summoned me into the office to announce that my best friend had died at my hand.

I was on Northern Boulevard when I’d found a fire escape attached to the side of a building and mounted it. I tucked my journal into my back pocket, clambering up the rusted beams that led to the roof of the complex. I ignored the searing in my legs, I’d endured worse. I did reckon, though, that I’d need a hefty dose of that tetanus vaccine when, or if, I returned home. 

In full color I’d witness the midst of the battle taking place on Main Street. I flattened a hand over my eyes to shield them from the incoming sunshine, squinting at the scrambling figures in the distance. One was cloaked in a metallic green, greener than the grand firs of Oregon, and his opponent had been sporting that dreadfully intense red. I don’t know why I felt it, not really, but I experienced a surge of panic and agony while watching them duel. 

I didn’t believe this work in the slightest. I was transported to the night before again, the memory less exerting to reimagine, yet more mentally taxing to envision. I saw his mechanical eyes adjust at the sight of me; I pitied him, I was fortunate enough to be able to gaze upon a hero as my soulmate, meanwhile he was paired with a petry teenage girl in a mortifying homecoming dress.

No, I didn’t pity him, nor did I detest him, I wish I had him sooner. This could be a good thing, I thought quietly, if we were to meet again, if I had the courage to root for him with resounding passion and seek him out. He knew how to keep others safe, and by the looks of the quarrel, his disorienting, unmatched gymnastics, himself as well. I couldn’t hurt him, not like I hurt everyone else.

Euphoria spiraled through my anxious veins as Spider-Man knocked his green enemy to the floor of Queens, the ceremonious praise full in my ears. I took gradual steps ahead, plopping onto the edge of the complex and allowing my feet to sway in the air. I maneuvered my hips to grab my journal and I snatched the secured pencil out from its spine. Not even a mile away I could see in plain sight the silhouette of Spider-Man; his body lanky but sturdy, his arm extended to wave at the crowds cheering him on below. 

It was a simple, nonsensical sketch, his elbow appearing dislocated and his head unshapely, but I would clean it up later, for now all I aspired to do was catch the moment. I outlined the blank sky blanketing his surroundings, the neighbouring buildings too stout to reach his waist, and I included small ovals as the townspeople campaigning for him. 

When I lifted my head for a second glance, he had vanished and the crowd dispersed. My heart sunk in my chest, but I knew that couldn’t have been the only evil he had to defeat that day. Perhaps the greatest, but not the only. Some measly rat of a man was probably hoping to rob a 7/11 as I drew. That’s what always happened, I heard it on the news each morning, before that day having chosen to tune it out as it was unimportant to me at the time. 

I felt a bit like a sham, sketching Spider-Man and watching him in awe as if I were some dumb, bored ten year old, when days prior I hadn’t given a single thought to his presence in the city. Love can make you crazy, I guess? But it wasn’t love, not yet, I’d just seen him twice: once running from me, the other kicking the ass of a giant green dickwad. 

I saw the commercials, though, and the billboards. Those god awful, unavoidable billboards that read cheesy slogans such as: LONDON FOR ONE, OR BANGKOK FOR YOUR LOVE? My parents would always rehash the story of their first encounter in Orlando whenever we drove passed one of those advertisements. Yes, because what I dreamt of as a child was finding my soulmate in line at Splash Mountain.

This entire excursion felt stupid to me suddenly, like the wind was knocked out of me and replenished by my common sense. What the fuck was I doing, dangling off a building and cooing over Spider-Man? I observed my sketch, it was shit, but I’d slammed the leather skin together so I didn’t have to look at it anymore. He was nearby, there wasn’t any time for drawing, I had to scour the streets once more and find him. I had to-

I heard footsteps this time, not in some tragic past, but in the dizzying present. I wasn’t given a chance to react before the sound of an object skidding came, and I felt something bump into the back of my shoe. I spun around, my eyes fixed to the floor as I saw my vivid pink wallet.

“You left it at that hotdog stand,” said a distorted voice. It sent uneven shivers down my spine and I froze in place, somehow feeling worse than that day in the forest, because this time my father wasn’t there to finish Everest’s job and carry me home. 

I exhaled shakily, relieving myself of shock and kneeling to the gravel roof to collect the wallet. My eyes wandered and found a pair of red feet first. I felt my heart double over and my adrenaline being put to rest in my arms and legs. I pulled away the flaps and recovered my ID before turning toward the site of the battle again and flinging the wallet as far as I could out of sight.

“Hey-!” The voice cracked, vaguely reminiscent of an adolescent boy, the tone I’d had the displeasure of experiencing the previous night. “What’d you do that for? I was helping you.”

“I know,” I replied, “Thanks, but I don’t want it anymore. It’s old. How’d you find me?”

Spider-Man shuffled in the gravel, reaching his arm back to scratch his neck that was tightly wrapped in suit. He realized this and dropped the bashful act promptly. “I saw you at the stand. I was pretty hungry too, their hotdogs are actually really good, but then Norman showed up-”

“Norman?”

“Green Goblin, the dude I was fighting,” he explained. 

“Oh, right,” I cleared my throat. “But after?”

“Well, I saw you leave, too,” Spider-Man - shit, that’s stupid hard to keep saying and processing in my head - advanced toward me and I didn’t retract myself, in fact I had an insatiable urge to mirror him but my pride conquered those thoughts. I just wanted to know if he was real, or if this was a fever dream, something of extremities in my easily manipulated conscience. “I’m glad you’re ok, M- Miss,” he stumbled on his words, his voice crack still highly evident, and it was then I realized, maybe as the first individual in New York City, that Spider-Man was not the hero everyone imagined under the mask.

“How old are you?” I blurted, unable to suppress the question. “Because I’m 15, and it’d be weird if you were-”

“15,” answered Spider-Man, strained with brief panic. “I’m 15, don’t worry. I don’t think the Universe would pair a teenage girl with a grown man. . .”

I knocked my chin up, “. . . So, we’re talking about that, huh?”

“I think we have to?” he phrased it as a question, giving me pause to reconsider the interaction and possibly leave, but I wasn’t going to.

“I’m. . . Glad you exist?”

He rolled his shoulders, his posture more steady and a little proud. “Ha, yeah, I do. . .”

I arched a brow. His voice was programmed, finely tuned to skew my hearing just enough as so I couldn’t pin his specific vocal range. I scratched my head awkwardly, something he couldn’t do, and tumbled back a few steps without thinking, or maybe in too much thought.  
“So, who are you? Am I just supposed to know my soulmate as Spider-Man forever?” I asked. His inelastic pose was short-lived, as he faltered and let his arms lean forward dangling, gawky. I folded my arms over my chest at this: was I not deserving of his identity? Me, his soulmate, his one and only, the person every atom in the Universe unanimously decided on for him?

“I’m sorry, I can’t tell you,” he admitted. “It’s not safe.”

I studied him, then racked my brain for every tiny slice of information I gathered on him thus far: he’s Spider-Man, he’s my age, and he’s dicey on his real life persona. I blinked. He was 15. My age.

“Do you go to my school?”

“Hm?” he coughed.

“Do you go to my school?” I added, “Midtown Tech. It’s here, in Queens? That’s where we met after all.”

His bugged eyes fluttered shut and reopened instantaneously at me, presumably blinking as if I were a troglodyte. “No, no,” insisted Spider-Man, his hands waving as to emphasize his answer. “I live somewhere else. Manhattan, yeah, that’s where I’m at. I was just passing by your school.”

I folded my arms across my chest, “Right. . . So you won’t tell me your name or anything?” I clarified.

He sounded genuinely remorseful when he’d replied, “I’m really sorry, but it’s not smart of me to say anything like that to do.”

“But we’re soulmates,” I reiterated slowly, like he was a troglodyte. 

“Are we, though?” The high-pitch I’d recognized at homecoming broke into his irregular, mechanic voice patterns. I looked upon him in disbelief. Had he his own doubts about me? Was I simply not his type, or maybe he just assumed someone like him wasn’t fit for monogamy?

“Well, I saw color last night, I can only assume you did too.”

“I did,” he quickly affirmed. “But you’re not. . . The first girl I’ve seen color with.”

I didn’t know what to think; my brain short-circuited, the words I had prepared died prematurely in my throat, and it seemed my expression blanked in response to these internal malfunctions. 

One of my hands slipped from my crossed arms and I wiped it over my face, the skin beneath my palm uncomfortably clammy. “What do you mean?”

“I sort of have a girlfriend. . .” He straightened his back, extending a shaking hand, “No no no, I HAVE a girlfriend. I-I saw color with her too. . .” He resumed his uncertain stance, I could almost see the dazed confusion in his engineered eyes. “But not like this. It’s almost like I only saw half-color when I met her. . . With you, everything is different. It’s in-your-face, more everywhere than anything has ever been before.”

I didn’t understand. How could I? This entire situation was complete nonsense. I’d called bullshit that night, that I was going crazy, because there couldn’t be a chance that my match had been Spider-Man, but our second encounter had only put down those self-deprecating ideas and enhanced my repressed hopes of it being the truth.

“You saw half-color?” I echoed.

“Yes,” he nodded. “Like- your yellow boots,” Spider-Man pointed his index finger at my shoes. “I see those now and I really want to tear my eyes out of my head, but if I saw them yesterday morning I’d be fine. I’d be underwhelmed, actually.”

I followed his finger down to my boots, “That’s weird,” I said.

“Right?” A nervous laugh met my ears and I almost felt a rush of admiration; that kind that burrowed deep into me and ignited my bones hotter and denser than the forest fire could have. It left me uneasy, as I wasn’t sure whether or not I was prepared to feel that way again. 

“You don’t think we’re soulmates, then?” 

Spider-Man took three steps ahead, closer to me, and again, I had no reaction. “I don’t know. I haven’t figured out what any of this means yet.” he said. “I’m sorry.”

There were no genuine eyes to gaze into, to reassure, so I settled for the reflective panes in his mask. “It’s not your fault,” I began, “But we should figure this out. I don’t know if anything like this has happened before.” Which was true, because if there had been such a phenomenon, I’d have been filled in. The propaganda was instilled into us since kindergarten, there would have been an honorable mention of circumstances like ours somewhere. But there wasn’t, and on that day I realized we were infinitely more alone than I would’ve ever wanted.

“I agree,” He perked up at my confident tone, shoulders squared once more and his eyes fully focused on me. “Oh- I didn’t get your name, by the way.”

I looked upon his suit. It seemed utterly ridiculous to me; a moment like this and he’s decked out in a high fashion onesie, on top of that not extending the courtesy of offering his real name. Though I wasn’t a sight to behold myself, I chose to play the long game. 

“Watson,” I said.

“Watson?” he repeated.

“John Watson,” A grin broke my stoic features. “If we’re going to be research partners, I’ll need a suitable name myself.” 

He appeared amused, though I couldn’t see through his mask. “Haha. I get it. And I’m Sherlock?”

“No, you’re Spider-Man,” I deadpanned. “You have your cool pen name, now I have mine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry it took a month to crank out. hoping updates are more frequent/organized from here on out. thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

III. 

Peter

I hadn’t figured out what I was supposed to do yet, so I was pretending as if everything was normal to mask my paralyzing fear of confrontation. I saw MJ only once since our brief meeting on the rooftop, and that was in AP Chemistry when she was in possession of a flask of acetonitrile. I wasn’t exactly inclined to approach her then, not that I would have anyway. But it lowered an immobile weight in my gut for the remainder of my day.

That blew, too, because I had a date scheduled with Gwen that night. Admittedly, I’d been ignoring her more than I usually would. I didn’t want to project my indifference onto her, because that’s what everyone else did, and I was insistent on deferring from Gwen’s normal. But I had to confront her eventually and I thought it best that I pay for the meal whenever I did.

I skipped out on patrol. It was a complete violation of my moral code. That’s my karma for ghosting my girlfriend, arranging a secret partnership with my other soulmate, and allowing May to make the reservation for the date. I was dizzy the entire walk home; not only from the self-inflicted vertigo I triggered from sprinting, but because of the garish world whirring by. It would have been such a relief had the guilt in my stomach not conquered all my senses. _At least I wasn’t wholly paranoid,_ I would tell myself, then I would remind myself of Gwen and I would think, _I could live in a world of half-color with her. I would sacrifice all this godforsaken red and yellow just to have that security, to have her._

May held a post at the threshold when I entered, sending my heartbeat flying through the concrete of my chest. Her eyebrows were raised pointedly at me and I nodded at her knowingly, stumbling into my bedroom. I got whiplash from each sharp turn but I disregarded it as I lifted my shirt over my head and tugged my jeans down to my ankles, almost as much haste as when I would switch into my spidey gear. 

My blood was pounding behind the thin skin of my ears and my bones must have been defying the laws of bodily motion for how fast I was preparing myself. May set out a wrinkled grey button-up and black slacks, my back-up sneakers baby wipe shiny. It was a slightly higher-end Chinese joint I’ve always spotted around town, but never had the funds for. I still really didn’t. That was just another side-effect I would feel the full thrushes of later, though. 

I sped around the apartment like I was driving a race car, my calves steering my ankles in painful yanks and jolts. May would leer at me from her place at the open kitchenette window and offer me my web slingers and mask. I stared at her as if she had a mass brain cell casualty.

“You won’t make it in time if you take the train,” she advised, preemptively grabbing my wrist and securing one of the metal bands onto my hand. I jerked my arm inward and she scowled at me. “Pete, I’m serious. Just drop into the alleyway and fix your hair before you go in.”

My eyes narrowed at her with uncertainty, but I made no further attempt to resist as she fastened the bands and sacked the mask over my head. I reached up and pressed the sensor to vacuum-seal the spandex to my face. Once everything was sorted, I stood there feeling spindly in my formal suit contrasting with my spidey face on. I saw May smile at me through my fixed vision and I smiled involuntarily in return, even if she couldn’t see it, and I bent over to press a kiss to her head before leaning my arm out the window and triggering the slinger.

I attached immediately to the brick wall of the opposite apartment complex, and I yelped as I was torn from my spot in front of May and launched into the night sky.

One thing I had found to be grateful for: Gwen and I agreed to meet at the restaurant, so rather than having to cross the river and risk running tardy from the inevitable Spider-Man meet and greet, I would only have to rocket over a couple tall buildings and land gracefully at the doorstep.

Okay - maybe not that exactly. Obviously if I were to land beside her neatly, I couldn’t reveal myself. But it was close enough for me. 

Although I was masked, I could feel the wind lashing at the exposed skin on my neck and arms. I whizzed expertly throughout the borough, as always, yet it felt like a new experience every time. I never imagined this time would include the searingly chronomatic city. Admittedly, it had been liberating. When I swung across New York City the night Gwen and I met, I didn’t feel that unconquerable thud in my chest I was dreaming about before. My heart swelled and quickened, but it didn’t inflame. It didn’t threaten to shatter my ribcage - until I was swinging, the millions of lights reflecting in my lenses and piercing my gaze, when I felt as if I could fall into cardiac arrest mid-air.

It was incredibly satisfying. For a moment.

 _Crash, crash, crash! F*** you, Parker!_ I could hear it all collapse in my subconscious as still images of MJ would pop into the frame of my mind. Interrupting the rhythm of my heart more consistently had been the wrenching reminder that it wasn’t Gwen setting these things into motion. It was a girl I had blatantly ignored for the entire school year thus far, someone I wouldn’t have looked to twice if it meant losing the dicey gaze of Liz Allen.

I was stunned as I dropped into the exact alleyway May foreshadowed. I blinked, coming to. _Oh, god! Oh! My! God! I’m going on a date with Gwen! And she doesn’t know-!_

“Shut up,” I murmured to no one, relieving myself of the mask and shoving it unceremoniously into the backside of my slacks. I had no mirror to check-in with, so I had to scavenge by carding a hand haphazardly through my curls and wiping my slightly clammy hands down my face. Cutting that corner might have been the second most terrifying scene of my life, only running up behind when I met Mr. Stark.

Of course, she hadn’t arrived. I considered dumbly waiting for her to show up, but it would be much more efficient for me to request our table and spend the first ten minutes inside sweating profusely and praying my nerves weren’t breaking through my skin. I must have been an oracle on top of a radioactive teenager, because that is precisely what occurred.

My stomach curled inwardly, the delicious smells wafting from the buffet section interrupting my self-restraint. Not even my own thoughts could keep me distracted, because every last one was dictated by either the food or MJ. The guilt would hollow me. I think I would have up and left from the deep, resounding bass thundering in my skull if Gwen hadn’t materialized in the corner of my eye and shot me a warm smile.

I stood up, my knees knocking up against the underside of the table in my rush to greet her. She was dressed as appropriately as I was for a glorified buffet: blue sheath dress, suede flats, and an assortment of white butterfly hair clips lining the side of her head. 

“Hey, Peter!” she absorbed me into one of her prolonged hugs and pivoted her neck just enough to where she could press a kiss onto my cheek. “I love the aesthetic in here! I wish I dressed to it. My fault for not checking the site first.” 

“What? You- You look amazing, Gwen,” I stuttered. “I didn’t even check the website. I’ve just seen it around before.”

“Very romantic of you,” teased Gwen, honeyed words keeping her tone from shying into mockery. “Wanna eat? I’m starving, I only had a green apple for lunch.”

I was slack-jawed for a moment, for no particular reason. Maybe I would have considered myself too lucky to have scored such an understanding person as a soulmate - but she wasn’t really my soulmate, was she? But she felt like it. I could tell. Because when I reached for her hand, drew my thumb across the plane of her silky flesh, there weren’t sparks but flutters. They were slow and steady, calm and composed. It’s exactly what I needed.

“Wait a minute,” I said, keeping her within my space. “I. . . I wanted to tell you I’m really sorry for not keeping up with us. I don’t even have a good excuse, I’ve just-”

“Peter,” she chirped, like a soft-bellied bird, even when she was serious and mellow. “We all get busy. I could have done more on my part too. You know, saying that makes me feel better, actually. I don’t want us to be like my parents - try to put the blame on one other, or worse, me let you take all the blame and crush you from it, like my mother did.” Gwen elaborated earnestly. 

“It’s not like that, Gwen. . .” I reassured weakly. Sometimes her age was lost to me. Fourteen and she had witnessed enough marital hardship to take better notes for herself. 

“Let’s just enjoy tonight, yeah?” she said. “I’m seriously starved.”

I wanted to say more. Before we could eat, before I ran the risk of wasting my food by vomiting it from anxiety, but the words couldn’t form coherently as she dragged me toward the artificial lights displaying the versatile buffet. I took a smaller plate while she took a larger one and we served ourselves. I hadn’t taken a bite by the time we returned to our table, meanwhile she had scarfed a quarter of it.

I watched her eat, taking bites periodically. She made most of the conversation, not that there was much conversation to take advantage of. I could tell she was reluctant to ramble, sensing my hesitance to exist in the moment, and although I felt secure in my feelings for her and what we could do for one another, it didn’t erase my preexisting stress concerning MJ.

“. . . Gwen?” I piped up.

“Mhm?” Her eyes glittered as our gazes met. Her lips were pursed around a forkful of lo mein, muffling her. I took this as a kindness from the Universe.

“I have-” I choked, unexpectedly. I didn’t feel any lump or tickle in my throat. It was like some ghost was willing me to keep my mouth shut. I couldn’t break eye contact, either, beginning to experience the first stages of claustrophobia in her stare. “Do you ever think there’s more to see?” I said instead.

Gwen’s eyebrows knitted together curiously. “How do you mean?” she replied once vacuuming her noodles into her mouth. 

Sweat broke out on my neck, thin yet still annoyingly slimy. “Like. . . Color. Do you think maybe we aren’t seeing all of it?” I couldn’t believe I was practically admitting my crisis to her. But I wasn’t, not really, not yet. There was an extra layer of strength on my balmy skin keeping me from blurting it in front of God and everyone.

“Hm. . . I don’t think so.” she said, her eyes falling to her utensils, which were buried halfway into her noodles. “Why? Have you read a journal on that sort of thing?”

“Sure,” I said before I could think. “Yeah. At school, we uh, we talked about it.”

“Oh, neat. What does that mean though? ‘Not seeing all color’?”

I didn’t have a good answer, or at least one that didn’t entail me dropping my act, “I- I don’t know.”  
“Hm. They didn’t explain it?”

I shook my head at her. She hummed and spun her fork in the center of her plate, gathering more noodles around the tines. 

“Why write a journal with no conclusion?” she wondered aloud.

“It had one,” I corrected swiftly. Her eyebrows perked at me. “It was pretty ambiguous though, which is why they, uh, gave us this stupid essay prompt about it. . .”

“Oh! That’s interesting. You’ll have to do your own research then. What was the prompt?” Gwen’s posture was attentive and her eyes shined with interest - meanwhile I was enduring the sweet torture of feeling my entire mind collapse under its own gravity.

“If we think some people don’t get to experience all variations of color or not,” I blurted by the skin of my teeth. “I think so.” I added against my better judgement. But what kind of amateur scientist would I be if I couldn’t confide in one of my own? She had no context, anyway, and I tried to focus on that as she replied.

“You do?” A smile flickered on her lips, though it wasn’t envigored. It held a distinctive sadness. “I’d hope that wasn’t the case. Everyone deserves to see what we see.” She extended her hands across the table to scoop mine into them. Above exposing myself if I hadn’t squeezed her hands and smiled at her, I wanted to, because she naturally made me want to do those things. I kept those sort of affirmations in mind the entire dinner.

“All the stuff you do at Midtown sounds so fun,” she sighed as we exited the restaurant. Our hands were still intertwined, our elbows swinging by our sides while we began to make our way toward her place.

“It’s probably the same as Brooklyn Tech, really.” I said.

“Yeah but - you have friends there. I don’t, not at Brooklyn.” Her footsteps ceased before we could reach the crosswalk. I wasn’t sure what she was suggesting. That she transfer to Midtown, or I transfer to Brooklyn? Or maybe none of those things. Boyfriends are useful to vent to, I guess. Other boyfriends, not me. But she hadn’t figured that out yet.

“Gwen. . . Are you sure you don’t have any friends?” 

She gave me a look, not annoyed but pitying. “I’m positive, Peter. If I had any semblance of a friend, I wouldn’t be telling you any of this.”

I went to say something, then to kiss her, but without warning the hairs on my arms and neck shot up at attention. I lurched forward unintentionally, awkwardly leaning in toward Gwen as she mirrored me and pressed her lips to mine. While I felt my blood rush and recoil beneath my flesh, she kept me near with the pleasant, light taste of citrus. She had to hold my limp hands against her waist. I wondered momentarily if she could feel the hairs, but she made no mention of it.

I ought to make a schedule and pass it out to all my frequent opponents. 

_When and When Not to Be the Bad Guy:_

1\. When Spider-Man is macking on his girlfriend.  
2\. When Spider-Man’s aunt needs someone to watch Steel Magnolias with.

Honestly, if I were any less confused and afraid, there would have been that quick, easily disregarded thought of staying with her. I was eager to pull away and organize my thoughts, though when I did, it hadn’t been as easy as I imagined. Her eyes darkened beneath her heavy eyelids and her fingers slipped away from my hand reluctantly. It was then I could see how _tired_ she was.

“I’ll see you soon, I promise.” I held her face carefully, sure not to let the take-out bag interfere. I didn’t want to break her. She felt so small in my hands, which weren’t large to begin with. Gwen nodded at me, her fingertips brushing the back of my wrist before I let go. 

The loudest thing I could ear was the sound of my footsteps hitting the pavement as I searched for an alleyway to duck into. I didn’t have my full suit, but there was always a solution to my idiotic decisions. As I fished my mask out of my pocket and forced it over my head, I called out hoarsely for Karen.

She answered automatically, like she was programmed to. 

“Hey Peter.” Her voice rang out. “What can I do for you?”

“Karen, I need my suit.” I whispered as I started to ascend a fire escape, keeping a firm grip on the take-out. There wasn’t a moment of hesitation as she affirmed me while I waited frantically on the roof of an apartment complex. I swept my hands over my head, missing the hair that was usually there for me to card through, and considered crying out into the night. As I paced, I requested any reports from social media of a commotion somewhere in the city.

It took ten seconds. Yet inside those ten seconds, I managed to phase through all the stages of grief and make a full recovery as I spotted the shine of the device that equipped my suit. I waved my hands around, although it wasn’t necessary, as it followed the tracker inside my mask. I leapt and caught it mid-air, already beginning to undress myself clumsily. 

“I can’t find any posts that mention an issue anywhere near you, Peter.” said Karen.

“What?” I panted. I didn’t stave over this my legs moving before my body out of instinct, carrying me across separate buildings and having me jump when there was a dip into an alley. “There’s gotta be something, check again please.”

The muscles in my legs spasmed and cramped as I kept accelerating my speed, my eyes scanning every surface of landscape that met my peripheral. The moments I kept passing through felt timeless, like with each step I took I was being transported into a separate timeline where everything was set one second behind the last. I could still feel the weightlessness of Gwen’s head in my hands, the oil of her chapstick on my lips, and the grip of her hand trying to resist my leaving. 

“Nope. Nothing. Maybe it was a fluke?” she suggested. 

“I-” Finally out of breath, I halted in my steps and took the opportunity to plop down before my body decided to continue the hunt. My legs - more like meat sticks then, lacking in any grander purpose - dangled effortlessly off the front of a Capital One. I wanted to crack open that take-out and devour the rest of it right then. “No, it wasn’t, Karen. Thank you.” 

The hairs remained upright, unashamed of their horrible timing and uncalibrated senses. I rubbed the spandex covering my face and released a sigh underneath my breath. The Universe wanted to keep me from Gwen, didn’t it? Ever since it realized it screwed up and paired me with MJ instead, all I’ve been is driven in the opposite direction of her and led astray. 

But I didn’t want that. I wasn’t hellbent on following the Universe’s plan anymore, at least I thought that’s how it worked. I wanted to refuse this new future it had for me in exchange for the old one it also orchestrated. The small things were to be deciphered later, much to my chagrin, as I could almost feel the hairs on my arm will me to the sidewalk below.

I bent over my knees to stare downward. I noticed nothing strange or obnoxious at first, my sight irreparably attuned to the abnormal. But within a minute I was given an answer to my senses’ motives. MJ made a curt turn from one street onto the next, earbuds visible in her head and a bag of Taco Bell in her right hand while her left was raised to her mouth, where she sipped a soda. I would have been sickened had I not understood, though I didn’t like it in the slightest. How would I explain _that_ to Gwen? _Sorry I had to leave, sweetheart, my ‘special senses’ were carting me into another girl’s arms._

That wasn’t the direct issue, however, so I had time to bide over that. For now, my mission was apparently to take council with MJ. I lifted myself from my backside and walked alongside her from the rooftops. She couldn’t see me, her eyes fixated to each forward step she took, never drifting from what was ahead of her. I wasn’t fond of hopping onto the concrete to greet her, so instead I dropped into an alley a couple of buildings down and readied my shooter. 

When she eventually passed, I triggered my web shooter and a white stream emitted from the metal band that splattered onto her bag. Instantaneously I drew myself back, the paper bag flying through the air until I swooped down to catch it before it hit the dumpster floor.

MJ’s body shuddered in shock as the bag was stolen from her. Her gaze immediately shot into the alleyway, eyebrows furrowed dangerously low on her face in irrefutable aggression. I was a bit intimidated as she saw me and began her stampede.

“What are you doing?!” she demanded in a hushed tone. I clutched to that Taco Bell bag as an old woman would her purse, exactly like the take-out.

I made it a priority to activate my voice modulator before speaking my defense. “I saw you walking and-”

“And what? Thought it was the perfect time to snatch my food and scare the shit out of me?”

“Sorry! Here!” I tossed the Taco Bell bag her way.

She squinted, taking note of the other bag in my hand. “What’s that?”

“. . . Chinese food.” I said, my voice smaller than hers. 

“From where?”

“Zhou’s?” I let the bag hang in the air as the logo shifted into view. 

MJ crossed her arms over her chest. “That’s an expensive place. I thought you were supposed to be 15.”

She wasn’t incorrect. It was expensive, I was 15, and my broke-ness that she was implying was very much so valid. But the shimmer in her eyes as she locked them on the bag gave me a feeling she wasn’t stating it out of envy or even for the sake of being cocky.

“Do you want some. . .?” I offered. Her stance stiffened as I held the bag up higher. “I have stuff I need to talk to you about.”

Her brows relaxed slightly on her forehead. “Research or something? It hasn’t been that long.”

“Something,” I admitted softly. She seemed semi-accepting of my indeterminate response, creeping into the alleyway. I straightened my elbow in an effort to extend the take-out bag closer to her. She approached me with less strain in her features than when I initially interrupted her. 

“Here,” she said, shoving the Taco Ball back into my chest. I sputtered for a moment. “I only buy it to spite my mom, I don’t like it that much.”

“Why do you do that?” I asked, peering into the bag. Two soft tacos and cinnamon twists. Suddenly I was overcoming the urge to brood. 

MJ did the same to the take-out bag, opening the top box and grinning at the greasy lo mein revealed. “Mom’s a vegan. She would have a stroke if she saw me eating that garbage. Which is why I buy it with my allowance.”

“Oh. That’s very rebellious.” I said aloud.

“Shove it, let me be edgy if I want.” she huffed. I nodded at her firmly. “So. Do you want to talk or?”

I scrambled in my spot, trying to balance my Taco Bell while reaching out for MJ. She cowered, confused before I motioned upward at the rooftops and had her notice my web shooters. 

“I’ll use the fire escape,” she said, skirting around me and allowing the bag to slide further down her wrist as she clambered up the ladder. I tucked my Taco Bell securely under my arm as I aimed at the ledge and watched as a web dispensed and hooked onto it. I rocketed into the air and landed swiftly on the surface. When I leaned over the edge to see MJ, she was disgruntled.

We settled in an area that faced opposite the populated street. She dug into the lo mein, unaware of my hesitance to raise my mask so I could eat. I shuffled the food around in the bag awkwardly, hoping she would carry on being unobservant and continue to immerse herself in the noodles. 

I grasped onto one taco and held it in my hand, rolling it around on my palm as MJ savored each and every bite of her own food. I didn’t see her look at me, nor did I hear her speak when she did.

“-hey,” she repeated, louder. I blinked and situated myself to face her. “Are you not hungry?”

“Oh, sure I am,” I never stopped being hungry. “It’s just- my mask- I can’t- yeah. . .”

Her nose crinkled. “You don’t want to get your mask dirty?”

“No! It’s. . . Not safe for me to take it off.”

“Even a little?” questioned MJ, suspicion highlighted in her stare. 

“We could run into one another in Times Square and you could recognize my mouth. And my voice.”

She appeared to be containing laughter, her cheeks puffed out and her hand pressed to her chest to ensure she didn’t choke. 

“Don’t be stupid,” she insisted. “Just eat. That isn’t going to happen.”

 _I’m afraid it might, actually,_ I said to myself, _Tomorrow in AP Chemistry you could look at me and notice my mouth and think: ‘What the f***?’ and proceed to never speak to me again._

“You can’t look if I do, and we can’t talk.” I said.

She opened her mouth in protest, to which I preemptively began repacking the taco. Begrudgingly, she threw her hands up in defeat and murmured something intelligible. I didn’t feel entirely assured, but my eyes were a direct pipeline to my stomach and I simply wasn’t able to resist it any longer. I placed the taco in my lap and unwrapped it, lifting my mask up to right underneath my nose. 

MJ unearthed her phone and switched to the notes application, handing it to me.

“What ‘something’ did you want to talk about?” asked MJ.

I took a bite of the taco first. ‘I spoke to my girlfriend about everything.’

“Really?” she spoke after reading the message.

‘Well. Not everything. I mean, maybe, I guess everything. But I wasn’t specific. I just asked her if she felt like there was more to see.’ 

“What did she say?”

I swallowed a bite dryly. ‘I don’t think she’s like us.’ I admitted.

__A beat passed, MJ’s silence giving me enough time to finish off the first taco without any hazards of choking._ _

__“Shit.” she hissed. “Is that all you asked?”_ _

___'It’s all I’ve done so far. What about you? Have you done any research?'_ _ _

I could see her shake her head out of the corner of my eye. “There’s nothing on the internet or library that we didn’t already know before,” she replied. “Studies of polyamory were the closest I got.”

I typed urgently. _'Polyamory?'_

__“Relax, I already cancelled that out. I’m straight.”_ _

____'. . . Are you?'__ _ _

__She scoffed, shoving more noodles into her mouth. “Yes. Are you?”_ _

___'Yes!'_ _ _

__“Ok, then we’re still at square one. If we want any new information, we’ll have to dig deeper.”_ _

___'How much deeper?'_ _ _

__Her head fell and a breeze unsettled us both. “I don’t know. I downloaded Tor and tried to do that dark web stuff, but I don’t know where to look for all that. I do know where we can get acid for half the average price, though.”_ _

__I froze my fingers as they reached for the cinnamon twists, redirecting my hand back to the phone screen._ _

___'Did you by chance get an address on that?'_ _ _

__MJ snorted. “I ain’t no snitch. You can go look for yourself, considering you haven’t done anything yet.”_ _

___'I’ve been busy.'_ _ _

__“Sure, yeah. Spider-Man stuff.”_ _

___'I’m serious. But I’ll try more.'_ _ _

__She lingered on the last message, taking her phone into her hands and peering at it. I was down to my last two cinnamon twists, but my constant hunger seemed to evaporate as she took a minute to herself._ _

__“It’s sorta useless,” she said. “You have a girlfriend, you’re happy with her. She sees things as she should. We’re the weird ones. We could just leave each other alone and keep being weird in secret. We have our full vision, too. So it wouldn’t hurt anyone.”_ _

__I went to retrieve her phone. Her hands twitched in resistance and I relaxed my approach, her fingers giving out and allowing me to take it from her open palms._ _

___'Would it hurt you?'_ _ _

__I spun the phone around for her to see. Something quiet resembling a chuckle escaped her and I could hear her begin to box up the take-out._ _

__“I thought heroes were supposed to be humble,” she remarked. Her silhouette disappeared from beside me, and I took it as my cue to reassemble my mask and stand with her. “Am I supposed to weep over you?”_ _

__“I didn’t say that,” I said, relieved to have my automated speech back._ _

__“Yeah, sorry, you typed it.”_ _

__My arms were heavy at my torso. I was growing weary of this snarky back-and-forth, in all honesty. I wanted answers and now I’ve come out with more questions. MJ walked ahead of me, fully intending on descending the fire escape and only ever having to encounter me in a freak accident or witness me on the news._ _

__“I want to get to the bottom of this,” I told her. “I know where to actually start, too.”_ _

__She didn’t stop, twisting her hips around as she planted one leg at a time on the ladder leading into the alleyway._ _

__“Where?” she said._ _

__“Don’t worry about it. Just meet me here again next week. 5 PM.”_ _

__“What if I take my own advice and not do that?”_ _

__I shrugged. “Then I guess I’m the only one getting answers.”_ _

_____ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last update I said sorry for not updating in a month. It's almost been three months since then. I don't think I ever learn. Anyway! Thank you for reading and waiting this long. I have a curious cat for any. . . uh, well, questions. https://curiouscat.me/piperlmccoy .

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all for reading! This first chapter took me a while to write as I got lost halfway through and was doubting myself, but here it is! I'm hoping to start chapter two soon but honestly I'm just finally relieved to have gotten this one out of the way. I hope you enjoyed!


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